To See the Stars
by Chernobyl.86
Summary: AU. Essentially HP/Gattaca. Hermione lives in a world obsessed with DNA testing, blood samples, and the like. As a mudblood, she is a member of the dregs of society and is limited in pursuing her dreams. Will she ever be able to see the stars? Gradual M
1. Auriga Alpha

Gattaca and Harry Potter DO NOT belong to me... if they did I would be an exceedingly happy person and richer than the Queen.

Unfortunately, I am neither.

Again, Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and Gattaca belongs to Andrew Niccol (he wrote and directed it, so I am assuming that it is his). NOT ME!

* By the way, I wrote this in an airport, so be prepared for errors and spelling mistakes... let me know if I should continue! (It will be H/Hr, inspired by DH Part 1)

Hermione = Vincent ("Jerome") equivalent

Harry = Irene equivalent

Mundungus = German

Lavender = Anton equivalent

Everybody else = TBC...

PROLOGUE.

The scientists never saw it coming.

The human genome project, a huge success, was a landmark event in the progression of society. Why wonder if you were at risk for Alzheimer's or Diabetes? For a few thousand dollars, you could have a small sample of your DNA sequenced, and really find out what you inherited from mum or dad.

This was the beginning of an immediate craze, where both the health-conscious and the paranoid sent in their fingernails, their eyelashes, their skin samples. Eventually, the rest of the world caught on, and with this the prices of a full chromosome sequencing went down from five figures to four, from four figures to three. It was only a matter of time before doctors were starting to recommend it in their offices, collecting blood samples, saliva, and hair to be sent off to the nearest center. In those days, it would most likely be a good hundred miles away. Later on, about twenty miles away. Today, it would be right there in the office, a five or ten second wait to knowing your fate.

For twenty-five sickles, you could determine your chances for a heart attack, ovarian cancer, male-patterned baldness and the like.

But this wasn't the only change going on in the DNA world. Test tube babies were becoming more common and common, until over 90 percent of births were genetically predetermined. Parents-to-be could select the eye color, hair color, skin tone of their soon-to-be child.

At least, those who could afford it.

Those few children that were "faith children," or "God-born," those that were brought into this world as natural as Eve birthed Cain and Abel, those that knew nothing in the womb but their mother's love – they were at a disadvantage. Not very much at the beginning – a few points difference in IQ or a few milliseconds slower in a 100m sprint – but nevertheless, there was a difference. These differences, however minute in the beginning, grew over time.

These "miracle" children fell behind, the genetically-enhanced taking their place, creating a class of the DNA superior, the "pure" and worthy class. The rich, the genius, the talented – all considered pure by society. Their number grew, while the genetically-inferior, the "muggle" - in some circles, considered to be no better than the mud that caked their shoes on a rainy day – found themselves as the minority.

The no longer had a place in modern society, instead having to move from place to place, finding jobs as janitors, trash-men, factory workers – or even whores. This final profession was unpopular, as most of the superiors were repulsed at the idea of consorting with an inferior, a "mudblood." No, they were too good, too "pure" for that.

They took pride in being "pure" of blood – nothing else was truly important. Job interviews consisted of a blood sample. Entrance to schools and colleges – all that was needed was a hair sample, and a proper DNA sequencing practically guaranteed admission. Ethnicity seemed to have no meaning in this new world... after all, blood had no nationality.

In this world, there were purebloods and there were mudbloods. The polite term was muggles, but no one really bothered. Except for Albus Dumbledore, a celebrated scientist of his age – but no one really saw him nowadays. He had retreated to his home, an archaic castle in Scotland, after a highly unsuccessful political campaign for the rights of muggles.

After years of successes that were meant to change the world forever, his one unsuccessful venture turned out to be the one the world needed the most.

Or, at least, according to one Hermione Granger.

CHAPTER ONE.

Hermione Granger was exceedingly bright. Brighter than any of the other mudbloods for sure – and she could give some of the purebloods a run for their money in the IQ department. Anything she read, from Shakespeare to Dante or Wilde, she could recite practically from memory – and explain in great detail the cultural significance, the major themes, or even the author's life without a moments notice beforehand.

Of course, no one really noticed or applauded this, not when she was compared to her sister. Lavender (soon-to-be Mrs. Lavender Granger _Brown_), always stole the spotlight. She was better in every way than Hermione – or, at least, genetically. During the process of engineering the perfect child, the doctor followed procedure and created two male eggs and two female. Immediately, the male eggs were discarded, as Hermione's mother Rosalind (or "Rose," according to her husband, David) wanted a precious little girl, and they then engineered an egg to their specifications.

First, all major diseases and negative genetic predispositions were eliminated, such as alcoholism and heart issues. Next, they chose for themselves the ideal Aryan little girl – blue eyes, blonde hair, and perfect, slightly-tanned skin (they felt that pale skin looked too sickly, and they wanted their little girl to be the very image of health). They selected her height (170cm – not too short, but not too tall as to tower over her mother, Jean) and were on their happy little way.

Of course, even in these days, there is no guaranteed way of giving birth, so the other egg was kept in reserve, just in case the planned egg failed. This natural egg would be inserted into the mother at the proper time, and had a self-destruct function that would engage should the planned birth be successful.

Unfortunately, the natural egg rejected the self-destruct function, and Rosalind Elizabeth Granger gave birth to Lavender Rosalind Granger and Hermione Jean Granger. Two beautiful children to most, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty and a brown-haired, brown-eyed child. However, in this world, only one child was deserving of the beauty – Lavender.

Lavender Rosalind Granger. She got the nice clothing (the satin dresses, silk stockings, and neo-leather t-straps), the wonderful toys meant to stimulate her mind (only to be tossed aside to the delight of her sister), and the better schooling. At her exclusive preparatory, purebloods mingled and learned and had opportunities that one could only dream of.

Hermione never made it past the front gates of the school. With her DNA, the school just couldn't afford to provide insurance for her. She remembered the dread in her stomach as the teacher's eyes drifted towards her mother and her voiced trailed off - "If she fell..."

Instead, she learned from her grandmother, a patron of muggles. While her parents were disgusted at the concept, Hermione reveled in the bloodless atmosphere, were there were no sample tests or pureblood supremacy speeches. Here, she could learn without prejudice, and learn she did.

Shelley, Dickens, Warren – she devoured them all. Her grandmother's library became her calling ground, and Gramma Jean affectionately called her "her little bookworm." Hermione was puzzled at this statement, until Gramma explained to her it was an Old World reference. Her Gramma was one of the few left of the Old World – or, to the educated, Generation Y.

Jean Elizabeth Granger, née Trolland, was born in 1994. She would affectionately refer to her days as a child, free from the demons of DNA sampling, instead drooling over the latest computer or eagerly awaiting the next novel in some book series she enjoyed. They were by some (apparently brilliant) Roweling or Rolling woman – Hermione never really caught the name and dismissed it as the whims of nostalgia.

However, when her Gramma wasn't reminiscing about the past, she was teaching Hermione everything she knew. Of course, she had forgotten a little, and Hermione had to become dependent on some of the subjects, looking up information for herself.

It was on one of these ventures that Hermione discovered her passion, tucked right between Hawthorne and Hemingway. _Cassini,_ she noticed. _Needs to be put back in place, _she thought to when she went back to the C's, there were other books out of place. _Encyclopaedia Galactica, Maps of the Stars (5__th__ Edition), _the list went on and on. Curious, she traced the cover of the book residing in her hand with her thumb, before opening it and beginning to read.

Hours later, she had finished, and was staring absently out at the night sky. A shrilly voice interrupted her thoughts – her mother's. Hermione stood up from the ground, and fixed her wool clothing. She looked down at the book, and after a moment's hesitation, put it in her rucksack.

Later in the the tube, she managed a glimpse of the moon as the rail went above ground. The stars were particularly bright tonight, and twinkled at her temptingly.

_That's where I want to go_, she thought to herself. Lavender pinched her, snapping her out of her trance. She was bored, and how could Hermy _stand _Gramma, she was _soooo _boring?

Hermione sighed before talking quietly to her sister. Her goal would never be forgotten.

_To see the stars..._


	2. Bootes Beta

Gattaca and Harry Potter DO NOT belong to me... if they did I would be an exceedingly happy person and richer than the Queen.

Unfortunately, I am neither.

Again, Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and Gattaca belongs to Andrew Niccol (he wrote and directed it, so I am assuming that it is his). NOT ME! There will be a lot of simularities to Gattaca in this, so I am not just making some fluff up out of thin air.

By the way, I wrote this in an airport, so be prepared for typos, errors and spelling mistakes... : )

- Note: Chapters will get longer, and there won't be any romance for a while. However, there will be plenty of language soon to come!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed - it made me do my little happy dance!

Question of the Day - If Hermione had to adopt some pureblood's identity, who would it be? I'm thinking Daphne Greengrass, because it would be interesting to develop her character (and to give her a potty mouth, of course!). Anyone else - why? Keep in mind, they need to look vaguely similar to Hermione! Thanks!

CHAPTER TWO.

Neo-Harvard.

The name itself made Hermione shiver in excitement. Her Gramma Jean had managed to get her an interview – it seemed that she had some old friends in high places. The interview was set to be at nine in the morning, and Hermione had set out her very best outfit the night before - a treasured pair of silk stockings, woolen suit, and shoes she had "borrowed" from Lavender (meaning her sister deemed them too ugly for herself and had passed them down to her). A spritz of her mother's perfume and a swipe of her sister's lipstick, and she began the process of tackling her hair. Her frizzy, gravity-defying, bushy hair. A hereditary trait in the family, apparently – not that Lavender would ever have to deal with it. She had seen her mother's hair before she had it "fixed" with some tortuous-sounding treatment involving heat, chemicals, and a whole slew of other things Hermione thought should be as far away from a person's head as possible.

Twenty minutes, two rations of hairspray (CFCs were still a problem), and several hairpins later, the mirror reflected a serious-looking girl with a rather severe-looking bun squinting back. Hermione knew that she couldn't risk wearing her glasses out in public, as they were a major sign of being a muggle. Most children had it corrected while in the womb, along with the rest of the relatively harmless issues.

Like teeth. Hermione sighed, baring her front teeth in the mirror. Too big, as always. And that gap in the middle wasn't the most attractive...

"Hermy," an voice yelled obnoxiously. Lavender. Her sister was most likely at the breakfast table, waiting for her to come down so that she could eat. She peered down the stainless steel staircase (a spiral like a double-helix, she noted absently), and saw _Vinny_ (her favorite, vindictive nickname for her sibling) stretching in her chair at the marble island in the middle of the kitchen, before standing up and walking over towards the fridge, daintily reaching for the orange juice. All 170cm of her, Hermione noted with a hint of jealousy. At 153cm, she was a far cry below the national average, and found herself a midget among giants. Yet another common sign of being a muggle.

Shaking her head out of the clouds, she turned to her bed and rifled through her satchel, making sure she had all of her information. Her best writing samples, her science reports, and the like. For luck, Hermione kept her precious, battered copy of Cassini's astronomical theories in the bottom. Hopefully, she would be able to talk with Dr. Chapman, the head of the best astronomy department at the finest university in the world. It had no rival after Neo-Yale had collapsed after the floods of 2037, and the susequent New Haven riots of 2038. However, Cambridge also had a wonderful department, but with her blood status being known in the UU (the United Union, as the Monarchies had collapsed in the early 2020s) due to the required registration policies, there was little hope.

This was her only chance, and she needed to show off the best of her best. Preferably even better than that.

Hermione walked down the stairs, carefully becoming adjusted to her heels. The obvious clicks of her heels caused her family to look up from their quiet breakfast, each of them nursing a steaming cup of coffee. Lavender, still in her silken bedclothes, moved her chair over with a toss of her perfect blonde curls, making room for her sister at the table. Her eyes scanned over her sister, scrutinizing her every detail before her baby-blues met Hermione's common brown. A cruel smirk made its way to her face, and she began to twirl her golden ringlets with her perfectly manicured fingers. Hermione looked down to her plate of eggs - scrambled, like _Vinny_ liked them, she noted - and found that she had no appetite.

"You know, you'll never make it," Lavender remarked matter-of-factly, before turning back to her plate, a haughty look gracing her features. Her feathered _lingerie _(an archaic French word that Hermione savored on her tongue, along with the other morsels of long-forgotten languages that her Gramma had picked up), swayed gracefully with her movement, making her seem angelic - rather than betraying her true personality. Hermione glared accusingly at her sibling – stabbing her eggs violently with her fork in the process - before looking to her parents for protection.

Yet again, their sentiments echoed those of their perfect daughter. Her father looked apologetic, while her mother looked just as distant as she ever did. A few taps of her nails later, and her dainty wrist reached out towards her husband, who helped her up. Ah, cocktail time. Her mother's startlingly straight brown hair reflected the light as she moved towards the sleek bar, making her first of many sangrias for the day.

Her father smiled towards her, before turning back to his daughter. He had once affectively called her his little "Joan of Arc," and it seemed that his description still held true today.

"Hermione, you know with a DNA record like your own..." he said guiltily, looking down at the marble. It was a well-known tactic of his, avoiding her eye contact, avoiding the accusing gaze of her eyes – his eyes - as if doing that would ease the pain he felt looking at his flawed, imperfect little daughter. His addition to society. His mistake.

"It can't ever hurt to try," Hermione snapped, dropping her fork. She had managed to swallow two small morsels of eggs, and felt that she couldn't eat any more. "I know that this is a stretch, but I would rather try and fail than never try." Lavender giggled at this, rolling her eyes before joining her mother at the bar.

"Yes, I know this, but -" She shot a sobering look at her father, who carefully reworked his words before continuing. He was treading on eggshells with his daughter, and he knew of her temper – something that should have been programmed out, had she been engineered.

He spoke, warily, fiddling with his coffee.

"Hermione, Mione, I just don't want to see you get hurt. There's a whole world out there, and they aren't as accepting or welcoming to mudbl-, well, _your kind_. It would be better for you to stay, were we can protect you -"

"From the world, Father. I have heard this over and over," she countered before scooting away from the table. "I can accept failure, Father. But not cowardice. Not from me," Hermione picked up her things, and walked confidently to the door, trying not to betray her nerves. As she closed the door, Lavender leaned over from the bar, martini in hand, and wished her luck. As insincerely as possible. Of course, she could have just been distracted, with a wedding to plan and all...

Hermione snorted. Of course she would be wed off first. Not that she was jealous – he was a real snot of a boy. Dean T. Brown. Thick, pompous, and rich to boot... just the way her sister liked them. He had already showered her with gifts, and had proposed to her with the most ostentatious ring. Large enough for a horse to choke on, at the very least, and could probably be used for aeroflight signals should her sister ever be stuck on a desert island. Like that would ever happen. Her hubby would move heaven and hell (i.e., his police force) in order to get her back, his precious _Lav-Lav._ His nauseating name for his fiancée made her laugh, especially coming from the soon-to-be Commissioner of Police - a fact he would always try to rub in the face of anyone he met. The two of them really were perfect for each other...

Speaking of their wedding, an aero to the Sahara (which was their honeymoon location) was only 28 galleons – Hermione brushed off the excess information as she searched for the correct aero number, squinting at the small, fuzzy letters on the display. There. 72107. All she needed was the tube to the station, and could easily reach Boston with an hour to spare.

For now, all she could do was wait on the freshly-sanitized polymer bench and gaze around at the world of stainless steel and auto-tint glass. Hermione felt foreign to it, even though she had grown up in it, so she turned her attentions elsewhere. She fiddled with the tickets she bought from the kiosk, fingers tracing over the ticket lovingly. The ticket to her future, if she was lucky. Her fingers felt the ink, and she quietly recited the layers of the epidermis to herself, followed by the special nerve endings, muscles, and bones that were a part of her phalanges. _Amazing, really._ The concept of the human body - all these millions of cells coming together, working as one in an attempt to achieve a single goal - was just mind-bogglingly overwhelming. Each little part of her - nails, teeth, hair, taste-buds - was important for something, and they intertwined in some complex and awe-inspiring way. The fact that the human body actually _worked_, that it was able to be as successful as it is, was simply a miracle. Hermione smiled. She was a miracle, along with everyone else on the globe, but the difference was that she just wasn't miraculous enough.

Later on the aero, she opened her suitcase, and picked up her copy of Cassini. She stroked it lovingly before opening it up, only to throw it back, frustrated. The letters were simply just too small to read without glasses. The couple in the aisle next to her looked at her strangely, before returning to their hushed conversation. Most likely, it was now about her. _Ah well, _Hermione thought as she scratched her knee lightly through her stockings. _Let them speculate. Probably think I'm some halfblood, at best. _Halfbloods were a rare, but not entirely unheard of, occurrence in society. They were engineered, of course, but only to a certain extent. Even with all of the amazing technology the obstetricians had access to these days, there were still a small amount of would-be purebloods that would be born, only to find that they weren't all that the doctors had promised them to be.

However, they were still better than a common muggle, and were treated as such. Most of the time, you could never tell the difference, as they were just as well-educated and sophisticated-looking as the rest. Most of their issues would be minute, like bad hearing or eyesight, and would be their only problem in their 88.3-year average lifetime. They would face some difficulties in employment, but nothing that a well-placed call from mummy or daddy couldn't fix - unless it came down to a certain profession endangering their health.

Regardless, their code was still far superior to hers, no matter her intellect or talent.

She went to examine her base file. It was a series of codes, something that she had never really understood fully – those four little letter combinations determining her future in society. The nitrogenous bases – the A, the C, the G, and the T. Right here, that code signified her predisposition to alcoholism. Hermione had never touched a drop, no matter how much her family seemed to drink, trying to tempt her. And there, those letters, those showing her likelihood to be violent. Very high, but it had yet to manifest herself in anything else than her temper. Other letters showed her heart issues, while the final code showed her life expectancy.

A whopping 30.2 years.

Her parents would outlive her by at least twenty years. Assuming the chart was right. Which it wasn't, she assured herself. Not all these things could be predicted at birth, and things were bound to be a little off. _Hopefully, a lot in her case..._ The rough aero landing disturbed her thoughts, and she hastily stuffed her base file back into her briefcase. Hermione peered outside, and confirmed her suspicions about America. Gramma Jean was right – it _did_ look like the Guggenheim (an American museum her grandmother had remembered from her teens) had "barfed" over the green, slightly swampy area. It looked out of place, but the architecture really was something to admire. Modern, sleek, strong – everything valued by society. White and stainless steel structures everywhere, in strange geometric shapes that were each their own.

Once off the aero, she headed towards the tubes. The tubes from the aero station to the metros – the _subways_, she corrected – which were just as crowded as those of London. However, they were not as new or as excessively sterilized, which was strangely comforting to the girl. Not a single blood test or suction cup in sight. Perhaps this world was less germophobic, less DNA-oriented, more "Old World?" Hermione felt somewhat more confident, and smiled out the auto-tint glass towards the approaching buildings. Fourty-five minutes (and one steaming cup of hot tea) later, she found herself sitting in a waiting room along with several other females, all chatting nervously. A girl with vibrant red hair sat next to her. She seemed nice enough, and was playing with the handle of her bag. Hermione introduced herself, hoping to break the tension.

"Hello." The girl looked up. Brown eyes. She must be a muggle. But red hair? Pureblood. The girl smiled fleetingly, and offered her hand.

"Hi. I'm Ginny – well, _Ginevra –_ Weasley. I think I might've seen you on the aero over from London." Hermione grinned, and they went into conversation about their general interests (hers was sports medicine) and such. The girl, Ginny, she was a member of a historically muggle-patron family. They had been on the news a time or two, and her Gramma had always made pleasant commentary about them whenever they appeared on her archaic telly. However, most of society looked down on her family, regardless of their engineered status. The thought of sympathizing with muggles - with _mudbloods -_ and their struggles was simply appalling to most. And the fact that they were preachers of Dumbledore's teachings and writings was especially despicable in the eyes of the purebloods, who tended to follow the policies of the Prime Minister, T. M. Riddle.

However, with the upcoming election, it could easily be Prime Minister Lucius Malfoy, a notorious pureblood supremacist. With PM Riddle's age came people's insecurity in his abilities, even though he had led the nation through some of its most difficult times, stifling rebellions quietly and as efficiently as possible, with little bloodshed or violence. For a popular pureblood, he was surprisingly neutral in his treatment of muggles. There was a rumor a while back saying that he was a halfblood, but with his practically-perfect genetic records (a whopping 9.6 out of 10 on the scale), it seemed unlikely. Regardless, it seemed he was going to be leaving office soon to return to his famed scientific research on trisomy 21, or Down Syndrome.

Ginny was called in, and Hermione squeezed her hand. The girl stood up, adjusted her vibrantly-colored hair quickly, and straightened her skirt. She wasn't tall, but she certainly wasn't short. Her heels made a few clacking noises before she reached the large wooden door, before looking back to her newfound friend and giving a half-hearted smile. She was nervous.

No less than fifteen minutes later, she walked out, looking a little pale. "I - well, he's not exactly a fan of my dad..." Ginny trailed off, before looking at the next girl who was called in. Tall, black-haired, and exotic - she was in before she even had to try. The red-head turned back to her. "Anyway, I've already got a spot in at St. Andrews and possibly at LSE, so I needn't worry. They _are_ closer to home," She said unconvincingly before looking at her watch. She bid Hermione goodbye, and wished her the best of luck. Sincerely.

After half a dozen other girls were invited in, it was Hermione's turn. After closing the door, she looked around at her surroundings and sighed happily. Plush carpet, velvet drapes, wooden bookcases, antique green library lamps. All in all what she was expecting from a college as old and prestigious as Neo-Harvard. She sat down in the leather chair, and admired the large mahogany desk in front of her, before pausing at the piece of technology that was out of place in the room - a blood sampler. The man who sat at the desk gestured towards it, and she reached her finger towards the needle A pinprick and uncomfortable suction-action later, and the machine began to whir before printing her genetic code. AGTAA... was a code she made out before her eyes were too blurry to read the rest. The man (Mr. Dunaway, she noted) scratched his moustache good-naturedly before picking up the papers and beginning to scrutinize the information.

"Well, Ms. Granger, it seems that -" he drawled slowly, looking over her code stoically. Hermione fidgeted in her seat. Surely this was just a preliminary test of sorts? Surely they would take into consideration her writing, her scores, her passions? She hadn't even spoken, for goodness sakes. Perhaps he was just scanning over it to be able to make out a general idea of the class. She reached for her bag, and was about to open the clasp before he cleared his throat.

He looked up at her, and she paused her nervous banter in her head. He set down the paper, folded his hands, and locked eye contact with her. A stern look sat on his face, and he didn't have to open his mouth for her to know his answer.

She was out the door a few moments later.


	3. Camelopardalis

Gattaca and Harry Potter DO NOT belong to me... if they did I would be an exceedingly happy person and richer than the Queen.

Unfortunately, I am neither.

Again, Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and Gattaca belongs to Andrew Niccol (he wrote and directed it, so I am assuming that it is his). NOT ME!

Sorry for the long wait (and short chapter - the next one will be WAY longer)... Midterms took forever!

To answer any questions (thanks for the comments on my first story ever!), Harry will be "Irene," and he will have a very large role compared to the movie. Most likely, he will be introduced in the chapter after the next (chapter 5) because I want to go into depth about the relationship between Hermione and Daphne - and the scenes of the personality transformation. Once Harry comes onto the scene, I will be writing new scenes and such (fluff), and the M rating will be well deserved soon with language (mainly from Daphne) to be followed with romance scenes.

By the way, I have been constantly editing Chapter 2, as I was not satisfied with it (I had barely worked on it for 40 minutes before publishing it!), so feel free to reread it. Mainly just more information that I felt I had left out.

After this chapter, these will start to become much longer! I promise - I just wanted to get this up before SATs, or I'd never get it up! _Kill me now... :P_

**CHAPTER THREE.**

Mundungus Fletcher. Not exactly the guy you could find in the yellow pages. Grungy, slightly slimy, and had a untrustworthy air about him. Greasy, weedy little thing, and was a little too _touchy-feely _for Hermione's taste. But, nevertheless, he was the guy you needed to move up in society. A personality trader.

He had come on a Saturday, two days after Hermione had settled in her own apartment in the bad side of London, far away from her parents – her precious little piece of what belonged to her. Her dirty little shanty in the slums. When she had returned from the interview at Neo-Harvard, she knew that her parents would start to slowly reign her in, taking away her freedom and hiding her from society. All for her safety, of course, but more importantly, for appearances. If she couldn't even get into college, _what could she do?_

Not that anyone would notice her being gone – except for Gramma Jean, but she had passed away to the delight of her parents. They got her money, she got the books. Yet another lovely aspect of her family to distance herself from... not that she really saw them as her family. She was in none of the pictures, had a bedroom that was hidden away from guests, and was always just a "niece who was visiting." Once the attention was off of her, it was always diverted to Lavender, who was an "affectionate and loving child," meaning that she was attention-seeking and slutty. Not that anyone would _ever _admit that, especially he sister's endless line of suitors attempting to sweep her off of her feet and charm the way into her pants. Multiple times.

Not exactly the world that Hermione felt that she should be a part of – or wanted to be a part of. With that in mind, she had reached a solution.

She had packed, and had simply left. No note, no notice, nothing. Hermione had registered with the labor union, and was now a janitor in a library. Or bookstore. Or office. It didn't matter, as her group was always being assigned different job spots. _Clean the windows. Clean the walls. Empty __the trash. Clean the floor._ Her friend Parvati Patil would always do the walls and windows, as she was much taller, and leave Hermione to trash and floor duty. They were efficient, and were often left with free time - to gossip, to wonder, or to examine the rooms.

One day, they were cleaning a gym in a law office. These gyms were a common occurrence, as the employers were always testing to make sure who they had hired was in top shape - and were who they claimed to be, for the sake of security. Urine samples, blood samples, random searches of desks for extra skin cells or hair... the paranoia went on and on. In the gym, there was an extra suction cup left by a treadmill. Hermione inched over, and looked at it more closely. A heartbeat monitor. Heart problems were still a big issue in the pureblood world - a bad heart could severely limit one's job opportunities, unless one was brilliant and had little to no other problems. Even in this world of technology, it was impossible to locate a gene to create a perfect heart. And after that, it was too risky to perform surgery, as the success rate did not meet the national standards of a minumum 95% success rate.

Being a muggle, Hermione was more likely to have heart problems. In fact, according to her code, it would be her most likely cause of death. Massive coronary, most likely due to a chronic myocardial infarction. Something to look forward to.

However, no one needed to know that – and they hopefully would never know if she was able to find a pureblood personality to inhabit.

So here she was, sitting on a camp bed, having her facial structure and stature examined by the beady-eyed "doctor," who seemed to "accidentally" brush against certain regions with increasing occurrence. Already, she had stripped down to her underwear, and now had her bra sitting next to her on the thin mattress. He would hum, turn her hands over, rub her ribcage with his dirty fingernails, weigh her breasts in his palm, and examine her profile over and over. Hermione became nervous, as he had been rather expensive and money was running tight...

Mundungus was still greedily examining her practically nude form as he walked over to his beaten and scuffed briefcase, shuffling through a stack of unorganized papers. Genetic profiles. Each of these profiles was a precious commodity in the muggle world, a way to become "pureblood." It wasn't easy – and it definitely wasn't legal – but the purebloods who were down on their luck (e.g., lasting injury, permanent disability, etc.) were able to "sell" their identity to someone who could make the most of it. This process was very complex, as the muggle had to adopt not only their appearances, physical traits, and personal histories, but also their DNA.

First, every morning said muggle would have to shave, cut, and scrub off excess hair, skin cells, and nails. This was typically done in an incinerator, which would allow the person to climb in, remove extraneous cells and DNA, climb out, and then destroy the evidence via controlled fire. The pureblood host would provide the muggleborn with urine, blood, skin cells, and hair to be put into portable bags, fingertip dishes (a sort of thin plastic layer that would be filled with blood and put on over a finger) and sample tubing. Hermione quickly examined the dishes, shivering without her clothing, and noticed they were porous, very much like dialysis tubing, and could have a fingerprint micro-etched onto them. Interesting. On the whole, it was very complex process, but if done correctly, could fool most employers.

Mundungus turned around, looked at her breasts quickly, and then informed her that she could put her clothing back on. Creep. He smiled, watching her turn around and reach down for her clothing. Once dressed, Hermione turned around, glared, and sat down across from him . He became serious, and looked her straight in the eye, rubbing is unshaven chin.

"Are ya sure ya wanna do this? Beyond sure? Because, there's no going back. No way, no how." After grimacing slightly at the bad grammar usage, she nodded and tried to peer over at the file before realizing she needed her glasses. The plastic frames were back on her face, and she looked back at him. He glanced around the room, scratching his nose, and noticed her star charts and books piled everywhere. More prominently, he noticed an application on the desk. For Gattaca, the world's leading space exploration and development institution. For Gattaca, the ticket to her dreams. He raised an unruly eyebrow, and nodded in understanding.

Mundungus handed her a profile, grinned at her, and told her to meet him on Tuesday in the park. He managed to knock over a stack of books in the process of standing up, and she scrambled to clear the floor. Once she finished, she felt his gaze on her protruding bottom and straightened up, turning around as he wagged his eyebrows at her. Feeling uneasy, Hermione thanked him and quickly ushered him to the grimy door, wanting to examine the file in peace. Once he was out of her ghetto (she was able to see his hunched figure faintly through the dirty glass of her one small, swinging window), she sat down on her bed and sighed before reaching for the papers.

DAPHNE GREENGRASS.

Age: 24

Height: 167cm

Hair Color: Strawberry Blonde

Eye Color: Gray

Hermione tried to picture herself as a blonde with gray eyes, and felt ridiculous. Her, a blonde? She examined a picture of the girl that was taped haphazardly to the bottom of the sheet. She was confused, and that wasn't a feeling that she was accustomed to. _What was this? _They looked nothing alike! Perfect, curly ringlets and cool gray eyes looked back at her. A perfect white smile surrounded by full lips. Their noses were similar enough, however... and they did both have almond-shaped eyes and pale skin. People didn't really look at picture IDs anymore, as a blood sample was much more reliable.

Hermione scanned the rest of the information, committing it to memory. A 20/20 eyesight, a 34C (that tidbit explained the fondling... to a point), a perfect heart (she practically had the heart of a horse!) - the list went on and on. How was some of this stuff going to happen? Already she knew that she would need to have her hair treated and dyed, along with a visual correction surgery to improve her sight and change the color of her iris, not to mention the load of other things that would be necessary to adopt this Greengrass girl's DNA. But what about her height? Hermione felt the beginnings of a headache. She had at least a dozen more questions in her mind, and undoubtedly more would arise.. _And why was this identity even up for grabs?, _she wondered. _What had happened?_

She would find out soon.


End file.
